


Reminiscent Of Keats

by TheAndromedaRecord



Series: free verse [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But neither of those actually happen jon's just oblivious, M/M, Poetry, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, References to Tim/Martin and Elias/Martin, jonathan is so very oblivious, jumping to conclusion, takes place mid season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAndromedaRecord/pseuds/TheAndromedaRecord
Summary: Flies by Martin K. Blackwood, read the first page.Ah. So, poetry, then. Disappointing. Well, it could still yield results. Jon obviously wasn’t hoping to get a piece of paper saying “I killed Gertrude,” but he was still looking for something concrete. He’d never been good at analyzing metaphor.=Jon rifles through the poetry Martin threw away and learns some things he'd rather not. Conclusions are jumped to.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: free verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572904
Comments: 77
Kudos: 203





	Reminiscent Of Keats

This could, possibly, be a new low for Jon, but he refuses to consider the possibility. Okay, so maybe going through the trash can next to Martin’s cot seems like the desperate actions of a paranoid man. But it wasn’t paranoia, because Jon had actually found something. Several crumpled-up notebook pages, containing secrets in scribbled handwriting. If Martin knew more than he was letting on, it would be in these pages, Jon was sure of it. He’d set himself up in his office with a notepad and a locked door. Whatever hidden meaning Martin’s words contained, Jon was going to find it.

_Flies by Martin K. Blackwood,_ read the first page. 

Ah. So, poetry, then. Disappointing. Well, it could still yield results. Jon obviously wasn’t hoping to get a piece of paper saying “I killed Gertrude,” but he was still looking for something concrete. He’d never been good at analyzing metaphor. 

_ If you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, then I am not a fly  
Because your vinegar has caught me  
I am ensnared beyond what any honey would entice  
Spurning sweetness for bitter drops _

Hm. That seemed unhealthy to Jon. 

_  
Though honey does not catch me, I ache for it  
I’ve almost forgotten that slow sweetness on the tip of my tongue _

_ If you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, then you are not a fly _

A change in the structure. Some information on whoever the focus of Martin’s affection was. Perhaps this was who had killed Gertrude, and Martin was too smitten to say anything?

_  
Because my honey has not caught you  
Some honey from the words I bring you  
Some in the tea I bring you _

Did Martin just bring tea to _anyone?_ Even someone who was apparently mean to him?

  
_And you make a face like you just drank vinegar_  
_Maybe you would find vinegar sweet_  
_But I have none for you_  
_I search my mouth, my tongue, for the vinegar that may ensnare you_  
_All I find is honey_  
_All anyone finds is honey_

Martin’s words, his voice, could certainly be described as honey if Jon was a man for metaphors. Which he wasn’t. Martin’s voice was just pleasant to listen to. Objectively speaking.

Jon set the poem aside with a disappointed sigh. It appeared to be a metaphor for some sort of dysfunctional…attachment? Martin was “ensnared” by someone whose words were sour, if he was reading it correctly. He tutted. Martin’s style appeared hamfisted, so Jon suspected he’d be using stronger metaphors if the other subject of the poem had shot someone three times. 

Really, he didn’t think Martin had anything to do with Gertrude’s murder. He just wasn’t the type. Jon knew that was a flimsy reason, but, well, Martin was pretty much the opposite of a murderer.

Still, maybe the next poem would have something revealing.

=

_ Two Weeks by Martin K. Blackwood _

_ I spent two weeks away from you  
Your voice echoed in my ears by the second day  
I tasted your vinegar in my mouth  
In the absence of your rejoinders _

An obvious reference to the two weeks Martin had spent trapped in his flat, missing…someone. Jon wondered who it was. A few weeks ago, he would have dismissed such drama as none of his business, but now, well…he couldn’t afford to dismiss anything. 

Tim, maybe? Tim could be acerbic, but usually wasn’t at Martin. At least when Jon wasn’t around. And, well, from Jon’s limited knowledge of attractiveness, Tim was exactly the kind of man someone would pine over despite any rudeness. 

Yes. That had to be it. Tim was mean to Martin sometimes, and Martin was in love with him and wrote overly pretentious poetry about it. Nothing suspicious there.

Unless Tim had something to hide. Then Martin could be involved. 

There was one more crumpled poem left. Jon sighed and flipped it over.

=

_ The Cot by Martin K. Blackwood _

Well, his titles were certainly not imaginative. Jon had a sneaking suspicion about the topic of this poem.

_ My back hurts from sleeping on a cot _

Oh, so it was about a cot. Wow. What a surprise. 

_  
And I awake with the unfamiliar buzz  
It’s drowned out by the buzz in my ears and the pounding of my heart _

Really, trying to wring a love metaphor out of a cot? Martin might be far gone for Tim, but the least he could do would be make his prose actually evocative in some way. Yes, okay, there was a certain charm to his style. It was easy to read. That didn’t mean it was sophisticated. Jon settled back into the chair, the mention of a cot finally reminding him to relax his shoulders.

  
_Your face when you offered the bed to me_  
_There was almost honey in your eyes_

Hm, back to the honey metaphor. He should really find some new—

Wait a minute.

Jon reread the line. Tim hadn’t offered Martin a bed. If he had, he wouldn’t be staying in the Archives. 

So who had offered Martin a bed? If it wasn’t Tim Martin was writing about, it was whoever had offered him the eponymous cot, which was—

The poem slid out of Jon’s fingers and settled on the desk.

It was Elias who had approved Martin staying there, even if Jon had made the initial offer. The formal offer was made by Elias. The details must have been lost in his poetic style.

Martin was in love with Elias.

_ I go back to sleep in the cot _  
_Foolish promises borne to my dreams on duplicitous wings_  
_Foolish hopes drowning in a river of vinegar_

No wonder Martin wrote so much about vinegar. Elias was practically made of the stuff—the sterile kind. Not the sour kind, the kind Jon felt now curdling in his chest. 

Why was this bothering him so much? It was the fact that it was so unprofessional. That was what it was. His assistant was writing flowery love poems about his boss. It was only natural for Jon to feel uncomfortable. 

He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, wishing hie could just put the poetry back in the trash and unlearn what he’d read. The wish felt wrong as he made it, though. It wasn’t…okay, it wasn’t bad poetry, per se. Might even have the capacity to evoke genuine feeling, if he were a bit more delicate, and if he weren’t writing it about Elias Bouchard, of all people. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, Martin knocked on the office door and cracked it open without waiting for an answer.

“Tea?” he offered. 

It wasn’t really a question. Martin already had a steaming mug in hand.

Jon didn’t want to say anything. This was so far outside of his wheelhouse. But he also felt like he had to say something. The Institute Human Resources department was notoriously a joke. The thought of letting Martin fall further for Elias didn’t sit right with Jon. He had to say something.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. Martin looked at the paper on the desk, and his brow furrowed.

“That looks like my handwriting,” he said. 

Jon hastily swept the papers into a drawer, filled with a new determination to not say anything. He’d stared the possibility in the face and blinked immediately.

“Just some of your notes on that statement,” he excused. 

He reached out for the tea, and Martin handed it to him. It was warm, and Jon could smell the honey. Just how he liked it.

Martin must bring Elias tea, too. It made the tea taste a bit more sour. Like vinegar. 


End file.
